Page 34 of Knocked Up by My Fake Fiancé
After much deliberation — holding one ring up to the light, dismissing another — Grayson settles on a piece that makes the others look gaudy. It's deceptively simple: a flawless, round brilliant three-carat solitaire diamond, no halo or embellishment, set in a slender platinum band. The stone is so clear it seems to swallow the light. The setting is pure elegance.
Despite myself, I have to admit—it's stunning.
I happen to glimpse the price as Manuel writes it down. $273,000. My God. You could buy a whole apartment for that... well, a co-op anyway.
Grayson signs an invoice with what looks like a mile-long itemized list, and Madeleine and her team begin carting packages out to the waiting limo. When we finally step back ontoFifth Avenue, the evening light feels unreal. I have no idea what just happened—or how much money he actually spent.
We arrive at his apartment on Central Park West and ride up in silence.
By the time the elevator doors close, I can't hold it in anymore. It's the first moment we've been alone since the spree began, and I finally get to give him a piece of my mind.
"It's weird how you dragged me along when my presence wasn't even needed."
He glances over, amused. "What do you mean?"
"You know exactly what I mean."
His eyes glint with mischief. "I wanted to see in person how everything looked on you."
Only then do I realize how close we're standing—just the two of us, sealed inside this small metal box. His scent—cedar, spice, heat—fills the air. The thought makes my pulse quicken.
"Well, congratulations," I mutter. "You saw. For the first and last time. I'm not wearing any of it."
"We'll see," he says lightly.
The fact that he's so amused only fuels my anger. I square my shoulders. "I'm serious. I know control is your thing, but I'm not the type to be managed. Got it?"
His gaze drops to my lips. Slowly, deliberately, he reaches out, his hand brushing the side of my neck. When his eyes meet mine again, they burn with dark intensity.
"I'll do whatever the fuck I want, princess," he murmurs—then he drags my lips to his.
CHAPTER 10
Grayson
Fire licks across my skin as the elevator climbs toward the top. Heat roars through me, scorching reason, turning every thought to ash and need.
I slam the emergency stop. The cab jolts, shuddering to a halt, and the silence that follows feels alive.
We're alone. It's just the two of us here, facing each other, eyes locked, in this six-by-six metal box, suspended between floors, as if we've blinked out of the universe itself and are in a temporary reality of our own. Harsh fluorescent light washes everything in ghostly blue. The hum of the machinery fades until all I can hear is our breathing—hers quick and shallow, mine heavier, darker.
I take one step forward, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off her, and the air thickens. Her perfume—something faintly floral with a bite of citrus—wraps around me like smoke. Every muscle in my body locks. For a heartbeat I tell myself to wait, to breathe, to remember the rule: never the same woman twice.
Then she looks up, eyes wide, pupils blown, and the last possible sliver of restraint snaps.
I seize her by the waist and pull her against me. The contact is fire. Her mouth crashes into mine, urgent and furious. I can tell she's burning up every bit as much as I am, grabbing at my hair, kissing like she wants to erase every inch of distance that's ever existed between us. My hands find her hips, grip hard enough to leave marks. I don't care. We'll both wear proof of this later.
The taste of her—champagne and adrenaline—floods my tongue. Whatever this is, it's messy and wrong and inevitable. My composure shatters like blown glass. I'm shaking when my palms slide up beneath her shirt. She pushes her body into mine, all wild energy and soft heat.
Don't,I warn myself. You don't do repeats.
But she shifts over my erection, and the thought dies.
Just once more—to burn it out of my system. Then never again.
I tear at the fabric of her panties, and the thin, soft cotton gives with a sharp rip. Thank God she's wearing a skirt. Her hands are already on my zipper, clumsy, desperate. I drag my teeth along her throat, biting until she gasps. She likes the pain—her body arches toward it.
"Fuck," I growl, half to her, half to myself.
